It's just like watching Brazil

Ok I'm sorry - this another football posting. But the experience of watching Santos play at home to Palmeiras was pretty special for someone use to the insipidity of English football fans.
An inkling of what was to come came as we stood in a bar next to the ground watching Massa win the Brazilian GP. As Hamilton slipped from his required 5th, to 6th place on the penultimate lap, the roar was deafening. No-one seemed to notice in the pandemonium that greeted Massa taking the flag, that the tenacious Hamilton had clawed his way back to 5th at the last corner - me included, as I slipped away before anyone noticed I was a Brit.
In the ground your ticket guides you to your section - but once in, you sit where you can. Suggestions about 'getting a programme' excited a certain amount of mirth from my companions...
Getting a seat at the back of the section is fine, so long as you don't mind not seeing the ball every time it's more than 10 feet above the ground, so low is the tier above. Both ends are standing and open to the elements - and both are incredibly vocal. The green Palmeiras section at one end gave a very good account of themselves. But compared to the wall of sound immediately to our right, all their efforts were barely audible. The home end was extraordinary in its 90 minute performance of singing and clapping, with a variety of chants and the continual fast samba beat of drums, keeping the whole crowd revved up to fever pitch - take note Hornby. What team could not play for such fans? The so-called Baggy Bounce is also in evidence, but this being Brazil, it's a co-ordinated bounce which, viewed from afar looks like gusts of wind crossing a wheat field. The atmosphere is so excited and exciting as a result, that you cannot help but be moved to jumping and shouting yourself, even if you are a neutral and haven't got a clue what to shout.
The referee takes huge abuse, and walks off flanked by the linos, and 3 riot police holding shields above their heads to protect the ref from stuff being thrown at him. One thing they do which is a REALLY good idea, and I don't know why we don't do it here, is that the ref carries some sort of paint can with bio-degradable spray, which he sparys at the spot where a free kick is to be taken from. He then paces 10 yards, and sprays a line for the defenders to stand behind. Easy.
With the game tied up after 75 minutes at one apiece, the announcer announced the crowd. 14 odd thousand. 14 ODD THOUSAND?? You're joking - they sounded like 60,000, I swear it. I thought to myself, as I watched a tropical storm cross the ground and open ends, and diminish the noise not one jot, that EVERY Premiership season ticket holder should be forced to watch this, first hand, to see how really to support your team - especially Wigan and Blackburn supporters, who are particularly woeful in this respect. This IS Fever Pitch Mr H - the Highbury Library it most certainly isn't.
For the record Palmeiras grabbed a late winner - not that their supporters will have seen it, due to the smoke drifting over the ground from the home fans' guttering flares. Come to think of it, I'm not sure the Santos defence did either.
And watch out for the Palmeiras left-back, Leandro. Very classy.

What are suitcarriers for?

When I embarked, several years ago, on worsening my carbon footprint under the guise of ‘business travel’, I noticed that many of my travel companions in this category had large, square flat bags, called ‘suit carriers’. I naturally assumed that the boffs in Samsonite’s R&D department had spotted a niche opportunity, thought things out carefully, and crafted a product designed to keep one’s suits and shirts in pristine, ‘ready-to-wear-as-soon-as-you-got-off-the-plane’ condition.

Not a bit of it. Do not be fooled. The suitcarrier mangles your clothes as effectively as if you had handed them to a captive princess in a tower of your choice (the princess I mean. Not the tower) and asked her to assemble a rope ladder by tying them end to end for the benefit of any passing in-bred aristocrat. In other words they are RUBBISH. With mine, everything needs ironing afterwards. Even my socks.

It does, however, have one important feature. It is bullet proof, the salesman assured me, made from the same material that is used to make body armour. So that’ll come in handy if anyone decides to take pot shots at the carefully concealed dodgy linen suit I own.

And while I’m on the subject of travel, I have just come through Lima airport, and what a depressing experience it was. You can spot the tourists by the fact that are invariably in possession of some Peruvian woven artesan type garish ‘Inca’ bag. These did in fact used to be mostly genuine, made by handlooms by indigenes (and weren’t so garish). Now they look like they have been mass produced in some sweat-shop in downtown Lima. And the other thing is, most of these tourists are over 60. What on earth do they think they are doing?? When I first travelled in Peru at the age of 27, this was ground-breaking stuff (or so I pretended to myself - just so long as you could ignore the brigades of de-mobbed Israeli reservists).

Now every Tom, Dick and Harold seems to be schlepping up to Cuzco - and at the forefront seems to be the grey pound. In the past these sextagenarians were quite content to sit at home sipping sherry, bit of gardening, bingo, Corrie. But now? They are zooming round the planet like modern day Christopher Colombii (the plural of ‘Columbus’?) on speed, thus devaluing the whole travel experience by making it look easy, the swines.

People used to be impressed if you had done the Inca Trail – now it’s almost a ‘must-do, and if you stand still for two seconds, you are likely to get trampled underfoot by the hordes, about 25% of whom are doing it for ‘charidee’ – and what a scam that is – get everyone else to pay for something you want to do anyway.

I’ll tell you what – there is a good reason Jeeves carefully packed all Bertie Wooster’s elegant togs in trunks and leather suitcases, and it was because they were fit for purpose. Old Jeeves wouldn’t have been seen near a suit carrier - and if he was, I’m confident he would have raised an eyebrow at it.

Ashley Cole - and being an England fan

There's been a lot written and said about the boo-ing of Ashley Cole after his schoolboy error on Saturday against Kazakhstan. I was there - it was a disgrace. I mean let's face it - does anyone believe that boo-ing will IMPROVE someone's performance, in any sport /way of life?
The debate has widened out into talking about the England fan culture. Two principal reasons have been espoused for why such boo-ing occurs. The first is the old club versus country issue - which English fans support their club before their country, and which do the opposite.
I have always been country before club. It's noticeable in fact, that those who do the opposite, are generally fans of the top 4 clubs ( as they stand today). Maybe, given the years of disappointment from watching England creates such a position amongst some fans, who want some success once in a while - hence they feel closer to their clubs. I am an old enough goon to have seen England win a World Cup - and maybe that's the difference - once you have seen that, it's always going to be country before club.

The second reason mooted for the boo-ing of AC is the fact that premiership footballers' millionaire lifestyles mean they are so divorced from the everyday realities the rest of us poor wage slaves have to face, that when they play badly (or make one mistake, as in this case) they are a legitimate target for boo-ing.

Well I find both viewpoints unjustifiable really. I contrast England's lukewarm support with the utter, and fierce passion with which the Argentines support their national team. The supporters of River Plate, and Boca Juniors are arguably more passionate than ANY English supporters - but once the light blue and white stripes are donned, everyone supports the national team, regardless of which club the players originate from.
And then this second argument. Surely if ANYONE has a right to bitch about the millionaire lifestyles of their international players, it's the supporters of Brazil and Argentina. Just about every one of these players have left their home country clubs to go and ply their trade on the other side of the Atlantic, never to be seen gracing the pitches of Buenos Aires and Sao Paulo again. Surely that would be a very good reason to boo the players, if you were so inclined - they with their multi-million pound villas in Italy, whilst you scrape a living in a Buenos Aires shanty suburb?
Not a bit of it - the Argentine supports every player - and loudly too. Contrast this with supporters I saw on Saturday who didn't chant for England ONCE. I'm not exaggerrating - there were a lot of them. Give me the Argentine or Brasilian football supporter any day. They deserve success. Not like England's pathetic excuse for supporters.

Football teams - a millstone round your neck forever

This is not particularly a football blogsite - but it's title needs explaining.
Like many fans all over Britain, the football team you end up supporting is awful chance, normally brought about by a geographical random event such as where your parents happened to live at that critical moment in your life when you were passionate about football, and actually deemed responsible enough to go and watch games.
In my case I had dabbled with Colchester United when I was 10 - but the damage was really done when we lived in Bury St Edmunds when I was 12, Ipswich Town had just been promoted to the top level, and I started going to see every home game. The REAL team I supported in those days was Man United of course - well who wouldn't have in those golden days of Best, Law, Charlton et al, when they had just won the European Cup. But like any football crazy 12 year old, I would go and see ANY football I could, and if I wasn't doing that, I was kicking a ball against a garage with my mate Clive, or playing Subbuteo for hours on end. Most kids who had Subbuteo had the proper ceramic teams. My set somehow was an 'economy' version, and the figures were cardboard. It meant they lacked substance. But it also meant they could do the most AMAZING swerves, if you gave them the right sort of flick.
Eventually I saved up for an all blue team - in ceramic! When I suggested to my dad I would like West Brom as well, he meticulously painted white stripes on the blue team with a pin head. He was good like that, was my dad...
So there I was watching Ipswich and the day came when my heroes came to Town. I got off school a bit early, to make sure I could into Portman Road ( we had Saturday morning school at King Edward VI grammar school) and rushed off to Ipswich, full of excitement. At 2.45 my heroes stepped onto the ground, alongside my familiar local boys in blue. The crowd roared and the ground shook - and the most peculiar mixed feelings crept over me as I watched. For I realised that I actually wanted Ipswich to win - those who I watched live every other week, had a far stronger tug on my affections than the lofty aristocrats from Old Trafford. Who were they to me? Nothing really. Ipswich won 1-0 - and my fate was sealed for the next 40 years.
40 years of struggle, hoping against hope - like so many other football supporters, for there is only so much success to go round.
I realise I was ruined, spoilt, at an early age. As soon as I got interested in football England won the World Cup. Two years later Man Utd won the European Cup - spectacularly. Easy this, supporting a football team lark, I thought. Sucker! Reality kicked in...with the 1970 World Cup exit after dominating West Germany - 3 years later we somehow failed to qualify against Poland. Baddiel & Skinner had it right with their "30 years of hurt" (make that 40 now please Mr B &S) - years of hope, bad luck and disappointment. Oh yes, I've seen it all. The only beacon of light in all this time was 30 years ago when a stylish Ipswich team won the FA Cup against Arsenal, under the management of the wonderful, passionate, Bobby Robson.
I'm sure most of you (who don't support Arsenal, Man Utd, Chelsea or Liverpool) have similar heartfelt tales, and can relate to this. It is a curse, in a way, the team you end up with. But maybe it's a metaphor for life - if everything was easy, you wouldn't appreciate what you gained. How can you really appreciate the highs, without the lows? That's why I could never quite get Buddhists - but that's another story. Keep the faith out there! We WILL win something, some day, somewhere.